Dreams, Mysteries, Love Lost
by tromana
Summary: Lisbon and Death, through the years. Jane/Lisbon For kathiann in the Holiday Fics challenge on LJ.


**Title:** Dreams, Mysteries, Love Lost  
><strong>Author:<strong> tromana  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Jane/Lisbon, Death  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Lisbon and Death, through the years.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Not mine.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> Written for kathiann as a part of the holiday fics challenge.

**Dreams, Mysteries, Love Lost**

She's not allowed in the room.

Why would she be? She's only thirteen. In terms of age, time on the planet, it's nothing really. Barely the blink of an eye. Especially so for a being who's, to all intents and purposes, immortal. It is possible for him to be killed, in theory and on more than one occasion, he has had a bounty on his head.

But that's beside the point. Doesn't matter. Is irrelevant.

He's got a job to do.

It isn't pretty, it isn't pleasant, but someone's got to do it.

His current task?

Take away the mother of this thirteen year old girl and her three younger brothers.

Then again, he is Death personified. It's not as if he has much choice in the matter.

And even if he was given the choice...

Well.

Everybody's got to die sooner or later, haven't they?

Even him, when he is no longer required, no longer believed in. Whenever that may be.

He knows that her, the girl's, name is Teresa. He has an innate ability to be able to identify each and every individual. It doesn't matter if they are here, on the Roundworld, or over on the Discworld. He just knows.

He also knows that her father is sobbing his heart and soul out in the next room. However, he doesn't require any special abilities in order to work that one out. It is, after all, audible, even from here.

That's enough dwelling. It's time.

The priest has already offered the woman her last rites, just as she deserves to according to her belief systems. In fact, he's already slipped out of the room and well on his way to leaving the building entirely. A doctor and a couple of nurses filter past Teresa, barely giving her a second glance. Since her mom's accident, since she was put onto life support, she has become a part of the furniture. Each and every day, she sits a lonely vigil, hoping and praying for good news.

Good news that Death knows will never come. So does she, probably. After all, priests don't offer the last rites for no apparent reason.

Like the people before him, Death says nothing to her. There's nothing he can say to console this small scrap of a child.

This girl, who is swiftly becoming a woman before her time.

Even if he could think of the appropriate words, there's little point. It's a waste of breath. She'll never hear him.

Instead, he enters the room via the closed door. Doesn't even need to bother to open it, he is Death, after all. This room has been home to her mother for the past three months. Teresa shivers slightly, but nobody, not even Death himself, notices.

The doctors, the nurses, the priest, the girl's father, Teresa herself, everyone has done all they can.

Now Death has a duty to perform.

It's over almost as soon as it begins.

A swish of the scythe. A spirit separating from the body it had once called home. The woman looks almost relieved that her ordeal is over when she stands.

As she disappears, she spares a glance for her sole daughter. There's a lot of responsibility resting on her young shoulders now.

xxx

There's a girl inside the woman the child has become.

There's a boy inside the man alongside her as well.

The difference between them?

He wears his heart on his sleeve. She battles it down, pretends that it's nothingness to ensure she feels a little less bitter about the world.

Lisbon, as she's now known, grew up too fast. She had to, in order to survive. Though she thrives in positions of power, that doesn't necessarily mean that she always likes it. Sometimes, she's left wondering what it would be like to not be the one (trying to be) in control. To not have to pick up the pieces after whatever catastrophe she's currently facing.

That catastrophe – more often than not – goes by the name of Patrick Jane.

Death knows this all too well. After all, her business, like his, is death. More often than not, they end up crossing paths, unbeknownst to her.

Only Wizards and cats can generally tell his presence. She, quite obviously, is neither.

The black and white ball of fur that had owned the victim before his untimely death, however, did. She arches her back, hissing and spitting at Death, before bolting for the door to escape.

Lisbon and Jane, naturally, land up glancing in the direction the cat yowled at only to see nothing.

Death completed his part with the victim a while ago. He only chose to remain when he discovered that Lisbon and Jane would be on the case. They amuse him, in a way. Both lives have been tainted by terrible losses and yet, they choose to live remarkably different lives.

Yet somehow, they bounce off of one another, make their strange little relationship work.

"Why do you do it?" she asks.

"What? Do what?"

"Sniff the bodies," she explains, with all the patience of a saint. "Surely you can tell whether or not somebody is a narcissist or whatever without sniffing them?"

"Well, yes," he admits, surprisingly willingly. "But it does help."

"I just think you like to make anybody watching feel uncomfortable. Push the boundaries. Take people outside of their comfort zones."

"You say that, but…"

They're no longer in earshot. Death has watched them leave, just as he always intended to do so.

Sometimes, he wonders just how Lisbon manages to put up with Jane and his particularly strange brand of antics. Despite the fact that he may make work an awful lot more interesting for her, it's equally obvious that he must make it equally harder as well.

Death has been privy to but a few of their exchanges, but suspects they never cease. As far as he's concerned, based on those interactions, she mustn't just have the patience of a saint, but actually be one as well.

Either that or she wishes she could get away with what he does.

xxx

Some stories have an inevitable conclusion.

This one is no different.

After all, their tale is nothing more than what ifs, missed opportunities and sheer frustration on both parts.

If only they had both been able to recover from the tragedies that haunt them so. What if they had actually taken the time to support one another – to really support one another – rather than rely upon half-truths and pithy phrases.

What if they had realized that they were actually, sort of, maybe, quite possibly, falling in love with one another?

Death is famed for having no emotions, for taking situations at face value, for simply doing his job. As far as people are concerned, he's impossible to bargain with because he just doesn't care one way or another.

This is not true.

Humanity – especially his granddaughter, Susan Sto-Helit, has squirreled its way into his bones. He has a cat fetish now. Or at least, a fondness for the ones who aren't completely terrified of him. People amuse him so. He has a penchant for very hot curries and decent spirits.

If it wasn't for the people he works with day in, day out, he wouldn't feel this way. Wouldn't really feel any way at all, because he wouldn't be quite so well connected with his emotions.

Anyway. That isn't the point.

Death has been dreading this moment.

Well, that's a slight exaggeration, actually, for he hasn't quite mastered that emotion just yet. Really, he hasn't gotten much further than fondness and amusement.

And that, in this case, is half the problem.

He's both fond of and amused by Patrick Jane and Teresa Lisbon.

Death studies the hourglass with a strange, heavy feeling in his chest. This isn't something he's particularly used to. He can't quantify it or describe it simply because he cannot compare it to anything else he knows.

But this was always going to happen.

Patrick Jane's life burns so brightly that it's only natural he runs out of sand sooner than most. It wouldn't make sense if it were any other way.

However, this is going to break Teresa Lisbon's heart so…

She's been through so much and Jane's death – a freak, unavoidable accident during a case, not even at the hands of Red John – is just another to add to the long list of heartaches she's had to endure.

Regardless, Death performs his duty as diligently as ever. He's honour-bound to do so.

"What? No. No, no, no, no. It's too soon. It's not too…"

Jane stops when he sees the figure standing in front of home. Cocks his head to one side quizzically, trying to take the view into account. Glances down at his feet to see Lisbon begging him to wake up, desperately performing CPR.

But it's too…

"Late?" Death offers.

Jane nods.

"I was going to tell her I love her."

Death sighs, not that it sounds much like a sigh.

He has some strange powers, which he can use if he puts his mind to it.

Patrick Jane need only ask.

Need. Only. Ask…

end


End file.
